Funeral Services
by muchoblidged
Summary: In which the World Powers try to come to terms with a loss, and America has considerably more trouble than the rest. Pairing/s/: None


**Author's Note: **This is what happens when I alternate _Christofori's Dream_ with _I Just Had to Die_... Actually, I've had this idea in my head for a little less than a year, I just finally got in the mood to write it.

Warnings: Established character death, language, disturbing images (?)...That's about it.

(My goodness, this is the one-shotiest one shot I've ever written...)

* * *

None of them were quite sure why they were there. Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, hadn't come. They were dealing with their own crises - radiation is rather unpleasant to contain - and so Russia was visited by _them_. _They_ never particularly _liked_ Russia, and only England and maybe France really had any sort of strong positive connection with America, who had forced this visit into being...

But Russia was a country, and it was rare that this sort of thing ever happened.

At the behest of their bosses, they wore gas masks, though they didn't truly need them, and, out of pure decency, black suits. Wearing the bright HAZMAT suits would defeat the whole purpose of attending, because they couldn't bring him back. They would go and watch America give his respects to the man he'd killed. And Italy would cry, because he had already lost two of_ them_, and England would stand by and fix his gloves.

They were dropped off, eight of them, at the edge of the dead zone, before driving themselves further towards Russia's estimated position - none of their citizens could stand the radiation.

As they approached, they knew something was wrong. England wouldn't stop glancing at America, who seemed to be muttering to himself; Italy was rigid, expressionless.

There was quiet... Quiet like they hadn't heard in centuries. It smothered husks of buildings, scraps of trees, dead earth like another layer of grime.

And bodies. Bodies, bodies, God, they hadn't _seen_ this many bodies. Germany blanched, obviously remembering something he would have liked to forget.

"This is it," France managed. Through the filter of the mask, they could hear his voice was hoarse from silence.

America was, unsurprisingly, the first one out of the truck. But he didn't walk... He streaked across the landscape, stumbling over corpses. They followed slowly, shuffling in their black silk suits, until America stopped and England began to run; France followed, and Italy, and then they were all running, tripping, panting.

He was kneeling, bent over one of the bodies, and they knew it was Russia. Faintly, they saw a pale strip of cloth leading out from in front of America, and the way England went rigid as he saw confirmed it.

They remained at a distance they called respectful, but were forced to admit, if only inwardly, it was a spacial barrier between them and America, some semblance of safety.

America's muttering had crescendoed, and they caught more of his speech as he grew and more frenzied.

"_...have to get the hell up what are you doing in a place like this come on you **bastard** why you it doesn't make sense get the hell up..._"

There were some tentative words from England; he flinched, almost reaching out but...unable to.

"_**No!** He's fine he'll get up I know he will so get on your **feet** now what are you waiting for this isn't a joke stop lying around and do something you're not** dead** you can't be **dead** right Russia** right** come on show him he's an idiot **show him you're alright** show him God Russia** get up**._"

A sudden impact made them all jump and look up. Now England had stepped forward, his words harsh, scolding, not reassurances, grabbing America's shoulders, but he was shoved aside.

"_**Fuck you** he's just being...**get up**..._"

"America, stop - _America get a hold of yourself_!"

England managed to force him back, but America's blows had already splattered his jacket and some of England's pantlegs with flecks of Russia.

His hysterical pants were far too loud for the silence of the decaying debris, but they soon gave way to "_No no nonono...no...no I can't...I would never...no Russia God get up please please I'm so sorry **Russia**._"

England stepped back and let the speckled flesh on his gloves slide to the ground as America straightened, almost falling, but catching himself before he collapsed.

"_Russia..._"

Something...something that might have been a sob escaped the plastic and metal protecting America's respiratory system and then...

And they fell into their roles.

America spoke in circles, pausing, mumbling, saying things that could have been prayers if they weren't so strained.

Italy, trembling, pressed against Germany and had an arm around him in a moment.

And the rest of them stood and stared...

"Ashes to ashes and dust..." America stopped, shivered, slicked back what little hair had escaped from the mask's seal. "...dust to..."

"_Dust_."


End file.
